


savior complex

by bisexualbluesargent



Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Post-Case 4, phone sex? hotel sex? the ocean? makoto being sad? it's all here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26914651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualbluesargent/pseuds/bisexualbluesargent
Summary: “It’s funny,” she said again. “I think you should just let your feelings play out, okay?”“My feelings,” repeated Makoto, narrowing his eyes.“Yes,” said Cynthia. “That’s when you do your best work, right?”
Relationships: Edamura Makoto/Laurent Thierry
Comments: 47
Kudos: 454





	savior complex

**Author's Note:**

> the title is referencing the phoebe bridgers song. what else do i say
> 
> tw: smoking, frequent use of alcohol

The first call was on a cloudy afternoon, a warm one, the sort that Makoto spent walking along beaches, sighing drearily, the sort that he had longed for over the course of years and years, and he had gotten them, waves and foam rustling against sand, the sky long and full of wisps and shapes. The long silences, the long three-o-clock hour that he would spend after work, gazing up at the clouds. He had gotten them. He had waited. He had gotten a call from an unknown number.

Makoto always got this feeling, somehow, right before Laurent showed up to ruin his life again. He didn’t know how he knew. He just did. It was a buzzing, an uneasiness, like he had forgotten something he had to do, the last line on a to-do-list. An itch on the back of his leg. A fucking bug bite. That was what Laurent felt like. Moments before this call, he had been trotting down the coastline with his shoes off, hanging in his hands over his shoulder in that picturesque way that people did in the movies, he was quite proud, and he’d felt it- a twitch of his fingers before his phone started buzzing in his pocket. He’d read somewhere that people often tricked themselves into thinking they predicted things before they happened. An unexplainable, psychological phenomenon. That was what this was, he thought. His mind, tricking him.

“Hello?” said Makoto, annoyed already.

“Ah, Edamame.” Laurent’s voice was casual, polite in that way that implied he wasn’t, but there was something off to it, and Makoto couldn’t exactly place it but he knew Laurent well enough by now that he knew when he was being strange. _Knowing Laurent well_ \- it was a laughable phrase, a far-off idea, but Makoto knew his voice, at least, knew the way he spoke.

Makoto pursed his lips, halting his meandering walk across the sand. “Where are you right now?”

Laurent laughed breathily like this question was something alarming, which was weird, too, but Makoto was tired of all this already. “Oh,” Laurent said. “I’m in America.”

“Are you.” Makoto sighed and sat down on the sand. “It’s late over there, isn’t it?” He leaned back on his hands, squinting at the sun warily. “Like, a thirteen hour difference.”

“It’s late,” Laurent agreed, and then he didn’t say anything, the moment too long and almost awkward. 

Laurent was rarely awkward. Makoto frowned. “Well, there’s something you want from me, right? What is it this time?”

Laurent huffed out a laugh, and Makoto suddenly thought, _he’s probably alone, right now, where is he,_ and wondered why he had thought it. And then Laurent went on to say, “It’s just nice to hear your voice, Edamame,” which was weirder, yeah, but more in line with the sort of things Laurent said, so Makoto laughed icily and ran his hand through his hair.

“Can’t say the same for you,” he said.

Laurent chuckled, the sound full of static. “Charming as always.”

Makoto waited a while for him to say anything, anything at all, but he didn’t. Makoto frowned again. “Are you okay?”

Laurent sighed, seeming to think about this. “Why, yes, Edamame. Now tell me about your day.”

Makoto did tell him, and it had been a boring day, so it was a boring story about the whipped cream getting clogged in the sink drain and a woman asking for her coffee to be remade three times, but Laurent listened and laughed in the places that weren’t meant to be funny, Makoto pausing to grumble, annoyed. He seemed to enjoy it. Makoto felt very uneasy about the whole thing. He didn’t really engage in small talk with Laurent. Even on plane rides and sitting in backseats of cars on their way to hotels, they talked about the con, the con. Laurent making fun of him. Laurent batting his eyelashes. Laurent being the absolute worst. Makoto… didn’t miss it. Not really. No.

“No new target, then,” said Makoto, after a while. Laurent hadn’t offered to talk about his day. Makoto wondered what he actually did, when they weren’t all together, what he spent his free time doing. He imagined him reading classic literature and making eyes at unsuspecting people from park benches, saying bad pick-up lines in his grating accent.

“Well, not right now,” Laurent replied, and Makoto could hear his sly smile.

Makoto pressed his mouth together. “Hm.” He had given up on saying no. He knew he’d end up roped into it all, anyway, that this whole coffee shop thing was probably part of it. What he couldn’t figure out was why Laurent was still going, even after the whole Dorothy business had wrapped itself up, nice and neat with a big bow. Maybe he couldn’t find anything else to enjoy doing with his life- sad, Makoto thought. Whatever. He wanted a cigarette, but he had left his current box of them at home today.

“You don’t have to get up early tomorrow, I’m assuming,” said Makoto, moving to get up, gather his shoes. It hadn’t been very long, the sun was still out, the waves not quite angry yet. 

“Oh, I do,” Laurent said, voice like honey, and Makoto blinked. “But your consideration for my health is so heartwarming.” Makoto opened his mouth to speak, but Laurent interrupted. “Take care, Edamame.” A beep. Makoto glared at his phone’s screen, unsure what he was supposed to think.

He managed not to think about it much at all, shoving thoughts of Laurent lightly away all evening, walking to his small little house and watching a movie he hadn’t seen before in his sweatpants, crying at the end because no one was there to watch it happen. 

—

Makoto couldn’t quit smoking. He was sure this was not a sign of anything good, but he honestly stopped caring a while ago about these sorts of things, months ago when- anyway. He couldn’t quit, mostly because he didn’t really want to. It was sort of fun, sort of cool, another thing from an action movie he liked to imagine himself a part of. The movies hadn’t gotten it right, he knew- the world was cruel and unfair and a liar, everyone was a liar.

He smoked outside of the coffee shop during his shorter break, feeling pretty good, all things considered. He loved the quiet here, the way the morning rush wasn’t really that much of a rush, the sounds of cars on the main road that was far away enough not to be a nuisance. The sea air reaching through the doors of the coffee shop- he’d made sure for it to be near the water. In Okinawa, people liked going to the beach to barbecue; Makoto liked to sit on the sand and think. He figured that meant he was getting older. He probably should’ve been more alarmed, but instead he spent his days smoking, smiling at the customers and their dogs while they sat on wooden benches. The town’s buildings were short, forgiving structures and everything was less loud than Tokyo. Everything. And Makoto could spend days without checking the calendar, really. He could do whatever he wanted. He had all the time in the world.

A text popped up on his phone: _How’s the weather over there?_

Makoto hadn’t put Laurent’s number into his contacts. He figured Laurent was the type to get throwaways and he also didn’t want to acknowledge that call a few days ago, but he still had that itch, all day every day, and it made him want to light up considerably more cigarettes whenever he went outside. He was nervous, waiting for Laurent to say something again- he hated it, the power the man had over his emotions. It wasn’t an eager sort of waiting.

Makoto double-checked the number, and it was, in fact, Laurent. He made a face at his use of perfect grammar and his typing style and the question in general and then typed out with one hand: _small talk doesn’t suit you._

Laurent answered almost immediately. _What does suit me, then?_

_A punch to the face,_ answered Makoto, feeling smug despite himself.

Makoto smiled at the _:(_ that Laurent texted back with, exhaling smoke.

“Who are you texting?” said Kenichi, co-owner of their coffee shop, tossing a bag of trash into the dumpster with a loud thump.

Makoto looked up, surprised. “No one.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” said Kenichi haughtily, and Makoto laughed, sheepish.

“It’s really no one,” he said, putting his phone in his pocket. It hadn’t buzzed again. “I’m going back in now, go on your break. I’ll cover you.” 

Laurent didn’t text for another six hours. Around that. Makoto wasn’t counting, he just happened to notice, sitting on his bed, moving around his sheets and absentmindedly thinking of the girl working at the grocery store he’d seen today, super nice, very sweet, and the night was still welcoming and not charged with the energy it got a hold of when it got past one. He could probably ask her out, if he saw her again. She’d probably say yes. 

Nothing felt right.

_Edamame,_ wrote Laurent, and Makoto stared at his phone, something sour forming in his throat.

Makoto: _what_

Laurent: _Are you going to sleep soon?_

Makoto laid down in bed. _i guess,_ he wrote. _why are you suddenly so interested_

_It’s not sudden,_ wrote Laurent. _And I miss you!_

Makoto let out a crackle of a laugh. _i don’t even know what to say to you_

Laurent: _No problem. I can do all the talking_

Makoto: _what are you even saying_

Laurent: _I’ve actually gotten better at Japanese. I’ve been practicing._

Makoto: _do you want me to act impressed_

Laurent: _Well, yes._

Makoto laughed, hand over his forehead. _i’m going to sleep. bye asshole_

Laurent: _Parting is such sweet sorrow :(_

Makoto hated him and he hated texting. He’d always been more of a phone call kind of guy, and he kept thinking of Laurent’s smooth voice with that tiny, barely noticeable edge to it, that afternoon with the clouds and the sand and the abrupt end to the call. Makoto had all the time in the world, which, unfortunately, meant he had time to think about Laurent, alone in America, up to who-knows-what. 

He had dreams that night, the sort he didn’t tell anyone about, tossing and turning all night and waking up much earlier than he needed to, getting dressed, unsettled, face hot. 

—

Cynthia was the first to visit him, pulling the hand of her child, Kawin, along behind her that first day with an admirable determination, a set to her jaw like she wanted someone to ask her the wrong questions just so she could tell them off. The kid looked reluctant to be seeing Makoto again, but Makoto gave him a free hot chocolate and hoped for the best. He had a horrible, gnawing feeling in his chest that would claw its way into the front of his thoughts whenever he thought of those months, of those days in the previous year. So he didn’t think. He saved the self-hatred for the worst nights; on this afternoon, he gave the kid cookies.

“I love your little barista outfit, Edamame,” said Cynthia, eyebrows raised, teasing. “How’s it been going? You seem like you’re at ease.”

Makoto grumbled a little. “Stop with that name. We’ve progressed past that name _.”_

“Laurent would have my ass if I stopped,” said Cynthia plainly, swirling around her macchiato with her paper straw. “He would have to confront being the only one who likes riling you up so much.” They were sitting in the nicest seat in the shop, not that there were many seats, anyway, but the windows were right next to this one and you could watch people pass by, tourists and local people on bike rides and hikes, all part of that almost sleepy, quiet energy pervading around this part of town. 

“Whatever,” said Makoto, crossly.

Cynthia met his eyes. “Or maybe you want that?”

Makoto gave her a confused look. “Want wh- why would I want that?”

Cynthia chuckled, mostly to herself. “You want to pretend you’re in denial, that’s- oh, Kawin, stop that.” Kawin was trying to give someone’s dog some of his cookie. “He can’t eat that.”

Kawin glared at her with that sort of power only given to pre-teens, petting the dog begrudgingly. Cynthia laughed a little before turning to Makoto with an almost tired set to her shoulders.

“You’re a great mother,” said Makoto, because he felt like had to say something about it, and it was true, anyway, he could tell. 

“You’ve only seen me for like, five minutes!” Cynthia laughed at him. “But thank you, Edamura. That’s very kind.” She seemed pleased, and they talked about this and that, Kawin’s school, the dog he wanted to get, the texts Abbie sent the both of them. 

“When I saw her she asked about you,” said Cynthia, eyes twinkling in that way they did when she wanted to start drama.

“She’s coming to visit soon,” said Makoto airily, realizing he was looking out the window and trying not to brood. Cynthia seemed to be waiting for him to ask something. He sighed.

“Do you think we’re going to do another one?” He didn’t elaborate further. 

Cynthia knew. She grinned, but there was a sadness to it. “Don’t know. Things are pretty different now. Though I’m sure you understand that.”

Makoto nodded, leaning his chin on his hand. “You think he, uh,” he started, then frowned, not sure what he was trying to ask.

Cynthia gave him the kindest look. “Edamura.” She sipped from her straw, her nails impeccably manicured, her delicate necklace matching her sun hat, her hair suggestive of being something that beauty commercials aspired for. “Listen, the thing with Laurent is- he, well, he’s an asshole, yeah, but he’s completely infatuated with you. I don’t know what it is, but from day one he’s been just head-over-heels for you. It’s been funny, watching everything go down the way it has.”

Makoto just looked at her for a long moment. “I don’t believe you.”

Cynthia barked out a laugh, but it was graceful, lovely still. “I’m not sure you realize how much of his heart is on his sleeve.”

Makoto put his drink down slowly. “I thought he just wanted to, you know.” He twitched. “Which we haven’t. To be clear.”

Cynthia studied him. “Has something happened between you two?”

Makoto flushed, for some reason. He’d been bright red since Cynthia’s little speech. “No.” It was the truth. He wasn’t sure what she meant by _something_ , or why he was embarrassed.

“Hm,” said Cynthia, eyes glittering again. “Hm.”

“Stop ‘hm’ing.” Makoto tried to snatch her drink away, to do something that annoyed _her_ , for a change. She laughed at him.

“It’s funny,” she said again. “I think you should just let your feelings play out, okay?”

“My feelings,” repeated Makoto, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes,” said Cynthia. “That’s when you do your best work, right?”

—

Makoto liked laying on his floor, on the weekends, staring at his ceiling, blasting music, sometimes, but mostly closing his eyes in silence. There was something melancholy about it all, admittedly, but this was what his life was like, now. His tap was broken again, sink dripping, and it should have drove him crazy but he found it a bit endearing, the drops of water plopping against the drain in the middle of the night, almost no sound at all otherwise. His carpet, the perfect place to lay on and sigh. His rooms, not full of furniture, no signs of wealth, just him and the walls and the low croons of cicadas in the summer, gone now because the weather was changing. 

He listened to his own breath, his own heartbeat, scrolled around whatever on his phone, wondering if he should sleep but feeling wide awake despite the lack of desire to do anything. And then there was a call, of course, from Laurent.

“Hello,” said Makoto, flatly, and Laurent laughed lightly.

“Hello,” Laurent replied, tone mocking, everything a lovely game. 

“Another booty call, huh.” Makoto picked at a stray thread on the side of the carpet.

Laurent laughed again. “Well, if that’s what you want it to be, Edamame, then by all means.” 

Makoto heard something off in his voice, reminiscent of the other day but not quite it. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” said Laurent, a smile in his voice. “Well, a little.”

“Isn’t it the middle of the day there? What’s wrong with you?”

Laurent thought this was very funny, evidently, because he broke out into breathy laughter that Makoto had only heard at the tail ends of their victory parties. “No, I’m in South Korea right now. Business deal. You know how it is.” He seemed to think. “Edamame.”

Makoto rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Oh, so it’s four a.m. for you, too. This is somehow more upsetting.”

“Upsetting,” said Laurent, aghast.

“Yeah,” said Makoto, rolling over, kind of weirded out. “I’ve never heard you this drunk before.” At least, he didn’t think-

“Well, mon cher, I’m not inebriated enough to forget to call you, of course.” 

Makoto thought he probably should’ve been recording this for blackmail purposes but it was also nice to have this moment for himself to laugh at later. The four-in-the-morning-sheen over everything, when he was too tired to be truly mean to Laurent about any of it.

“Actually,” continued Laurent, his voice dopey but syrupy nonetheless, “Cynthia’s here, she suggested I say hi.” Cynthia’s voice rang out in the background; she was cackling. Makoto hated them both very much. Abbie would have agreed with him.

“You’re both in Korea,” said Makoto, just to say something. Laurent was prattling on about their crazy, fun little night on the town.

“Aw, feeling left out?” Laurent was so condescending, like this, like he had no filter at all between him and his ego.

“No,” said Makoto, irritated.

“That’s all right, Edamura. We’ll meet up soon enough,” said Laurent, voice low and rough, and Makoto found himself heating up, everything a bit off, the silence of his house suddenly humming with energy like he was under the water of a pool in the middle of a party. 

_My name,_ he thought, startled, thinking of Laurent’s easy laugh at this hour of the night, thinking of how he would feel if it were ringing off his own walls, or if he was there with him in Korea, the two of them in an expensive room just to do it, traveling just to do it. He closed his eyes, softly, as Laurent had a conversation with Cynthia about room service or something, voice far from the receiver, like Makoto was listening in on something he wasn’t supposed to, an eavesdropper far removed and living by the ocean.

“I’m going to sleep,” said Makoto, suddenly so tired.

Laurent’s breaths were short and quick into the phone, recovering from another laughing fit. “Oh, mon coeur, don’t go.”

This made Makoto hesitate. “What does that mean?”

Laurent paused, too, then said, “Go to sleep, then.” 

Makoto nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I hope your hangover’s horrible.” 

_—_

And maybe it _was_ horrible, because Laurent didn’t text or call him for a long while after that. Almost a week, in fact. Makoto thought about initiating it this time but didn’t know what he would say. He kept having dreams, too, ones where Laurent would kiss the inside of his wrist or the back of his neck and he would have to go to work and just think about it, all day, fantasizing about that gravelly voice through the phone. _Great,_ he thought, spilling milk all over the counter as part of a low-tier cosmic joke. 

“I blame _him_ ,” he hissed, pointing at a new stain on his apron from earlier that morning as he sat down to talk to Abbie, who was going hiking with him later. 

Abbie looked almost bored. “I don’t even want to ask.”

Makoto sighed and pulled out a towel from his pocket to wipe at their table, antsy and sleep-deprived. “Ugh. Next time I’ll come visit one of you, by the way. I know I haven’t… yeah.”

“No, we understand that you’re going through your little depression time right now or whatever,” said Abbie, already almost done with her iced coffee, too much sugar. 

“I’m not depressed,” said Makoto, frowning at her.

“Okay,” said Abbie. “Maybe you’re just boring. We’ll move on.” 

Makoto didn’t know how to unpack this. He hadn’t left Okinawa for six months, now, and he hadn’t done much of anything but beg the owner of this coffee shop to give him a job and then he had let him own the place, which he was suspicious of but didn’t see anything wrong with yet. It had taken several months for him to answer any of Cynthia or Abbie’s calls. He’d been angry for a long, long time. He… he didn’t know. Laurent hadn’t contacted him until then. Makoto didn’t feel guilty about anything; he’d decided he didn’t have the space in his mind to do so, not anymore.

“Okay,” echoed Makoto, raising an eyebrow at her. “Um.”

Abbie bit into a croissant he had given her, crumbs violently hitting the table. “Thrilling conversation. Oh, I really missed you.”

Makoto laughed a little. “God, I forgot how mean you are.”

Abbie rolled her eyes, taking the lid off of her coffee to pour some ice in her mouth to crunch on. “I forgot how much of a bitch _you_ are.”

In the middle of their strange conversation about Abbie’s stint with climbing the sides of the Grand Canyon, Makoto’s phone rang. He’d forgotten to silence it.

“Oh,” he said, looking at the screen. It was Laurent.

Abbie eyed him, unamused. “Uh huh.”

Makoto looked at her and then his phone and then her again. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He looked at his phone one more time.

Abbie only flipped him off, finishing her croissant. “You going to answer that, lover boy?”

Makoto got up with a scoff. “It’s a business call.” Abbie spit on him as she laughed.

“What is it,” Makoto hissed, phone up to his ear, pacing around outside, too red, too embarrassed. A passing cyclist almost ran into him, admittedly very jovial about the whole thing. Makoto waved back, irritated.

“Edamame,” said Laurent, and it sounded so relieved.

“Fucker,” said Makoto, not sure why he did.

Laurent hummed, nonplussed. “I wanted to apologize.”

“What,” said Makoto. “For what?”

“For the other night. I got a bit tipsy and I’m sure you didn’t want a call from me like-“

“What,” said Makoto again. 

“The other night,” repeated Laurent, slowly, like he was talking to a rabid animal, but it was actually the other fucking way around, Makoto thought, and Makoto was realizing that this tone of voice was somewhere down the lovely road to embarrassment _._ Laurent was _embarrassed._

“Oh,” said Makoto, suddenly animated, excited, “that?”

Laurent paused. “Er, yes.”

“I didn’t mind at all,” said Makoto, feeling his mouth turn up. He flipped through the sorts of things Laurent could’ve been wearing, right then- something elegant, cuffs and golden buttons at the wrist, finely tailored; a nice button-down, folded up at the elbows, recently dry-cleaned, Makoto could always tell; a floral shirt, undone just a little, ugly and terrible, the worst of his outfits, but the one Makoto always remembered, always knew.

“In fact,” Makoto went on, as he listened to the buzz of static coming through the phone as Laurent refused to reply, “you should call me again, later. Tonight. My time.” Makoto was leaning against the bricks of the building, the un-sanded edges jagged against his back, and it was satisfying, somehow, to feel something, to get a little excited. Laurent hadn’t really said anything at all and Makoto was getting- “I’ve missed you, you know.”

Laurent’s answering breath was too long, too labored. “Aw, Edamame.” 

Makoto grinned, glancing behind him through the window. “I’m here with Abbie, wanna say hi?” 

“No,” said Laurent, chuckling, “that’s fine. She hates our conversations.”

“Well,” said Makoto.

“Well,” echoed Laurent, smile back in his voice. “You _are_ busy. I guess I will, in fact, call you later.” Done. Call ended. There was nothing.

Makoto leaned back and put his phone in his pocket, tilting his head up to inhale, exhale, smile cautiously at the sun. If he listened carefully enough, on days like this, cloudy and boring, the cusp of autumn and winter, not even the worst of it yet- if he listened carefully enough, he could convince himself he could hear the sea. 

—

Makoto smoked a lot, all day, rinsing out dishes, picking up napkins from underneath tables, heart pitter-pattering out to dance on their washed out tile floor- it had character, it made the place look rustic, cute, that’s what he joked about with Kenichi. Customers making jokes, too, him playing along. He found himself thinking a lot about Los Angeles- those days where he had no idea what was going on: there was Laurent, hand on the stick shift, laughing as Makoto shook him, making bets with low-hooded eyes, everything so funny, such a game, Makoto hanging off the Hollywood sign-

They were insane. They were both just insane. He told his heart to quiet down while he was working.

The walk to his house was a darling to him, the sort of friend you met and just knew immediately, like it had been years and years when it had really only been a day. The path was suburban and plain, sidewalks with moss and weeds and not the worst part of town but definitely not where the rich had their beach houses. Makoto knew the walk intimately, had dreams about it. It wasn’t anything but a walk. Though he didn’t know what he wanted, anymore; just because you knew something well didn’t mean you loved it.

Makoto didn’t usually cook, though he sometimes tried, finding recipes on his phone and spending half the day buying ingredients at the local grocery store. A project. Something small. This was what people did, they had hobbies. Makoto had loads of potential hobbies, waiting to be found, Cynthia had said this over the phone, after she had asked him what he usually did outside of work and found his answer lacking. _Remember how you learned to fix planes,_ she had said. _You’re good at anything you put your mind to._ That was fake, Makoto had said. Everything I’ve done is fake.

They were all closer, now, but everything had gone a little off-kilter, Makoto knew. Sometimes he would have conversations with someone from the team and he could tell that they were waiting for him to blow up again, or that they felt awkward, when he brought up certain things, tiptoeing around mentioning his father or murder or whatever. Makoto just felt tired. Laurent never tiptoed. He just avoided it all completely or… didn’t. Makoto didn’t know if he wanted him to do anything else.

There was no place like Makoto’s room, not for him. Quiet and alone and so far away from everything he had ever known. But just because you knew something well, didn’t mean-

“Tell me it’s a lovely night over there,” said Laurent, and Makoto could picture him leaning back against a fancy chair, one arm perched to the side like he was at a business meeting and not just lounging in his living room.

“Why should I,” said Makoto, staring at his ceiling. Everything suddenly felt very heavy; he was exhausted. He’d done a lot of work that day, to keep himself from thinking too much, letting Kenichi take super long breaks and volunteering to do a deep clean of the sink area. But he didn’t feel- bad? Angry? He didn’t.

“It sets a nice mood,” said Laurent, airy, casual, probably waving his hand around, _check, please._

“Hm,” said Makoto, closing his eyes and stretching out a little. “Tell me what you did today.”

“Oh,” said Laurent. “I don’t want to bore you.”

Makoto felt himself twitch. “Playing dumb? Really not your style. Doesn’t work.”

“You like me better intelligent, then?” 

“I don’t like you at all,” said Makoto, automatically, feeling childish, but Laurent laughed.

“There’s my Edamame,” he said, and Makoto grumbled at him. “Well, I went to a business meeting. It was actually pretty boring. I don’t feel like talking about it.”

“You sound annoyed,” said Makoto, amused.

“Me? Never.” Laurent seemed to shuffle around a bit on the couch. “I just haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in a few days. The cost of fortune, I suppose.”

“Fortune,” mused Makoto, smiling faintly and rolling over. “Go to sleep early tonight, then.”

“Ah, I would, but I can’t manage it, it’s like my mind won’t shut up,” said Laurent, and this was so weird, Makoto thought, it was like they were just friends, maybe they’d met in college or at a party and now they called and made small talk like this, except he couldn’t imagine a world where they would ever be that simple, because Makoto was talking to him in the middle of the night in just his boxers and Laurent apparently called him when he was drunk and giddy and called him pet names in French that Makoto would look up later, later.

“Watch a movie or something,” said Makoto, yawning. “Jack off. There’s got to be a solution here.”

Laurent replied a beat too late. “Is that what you do, Edamame?” He was laughing.

“It’s relaxing,” said Makoto, not so much self-conscious as annoyed. “Aren’t you supposed be the fucking playboy of the group?”

“I don’t deign to use societal tropes like that in conversation,” said Laurent loftily, entertained now. “It’s just funny when you say things like that.” You, a word he emphasized. You. Makoto, and everyone else.

“Why,” said Makoto, sensing something to poke and prod at, voice going a little lower. “Tell me why it’s funny, Laurent.” 

Laurent hesitated. “Edamame-“

Makoto licked his lips.

“Are you in bed right now?” His tone was unreadable.

“Yeah,” said Makoto, legs pressed together. “Where are you?”

Laurent shifted a bit, Makoto could hear it. “Alone.”

“That’s not the right answer,” said Makoto harshly.

“Maybe it wasn’t the right question,” replied Laurent, and Makoto didn’t like _that_. 

He sighed, turned over in bed. “What _is_ the right question, then?”

Laurent’s smile reached through the phone at him. “Do you really miss me?”

Makoto got so scared, he only let out a small and awkward _never, asshole,_ before he hung up. And then he was alone in his room, and it actually didn’t feel so great, those mostly-bare walls and the stars not even visible from his singular window, the sheets too warm and his face flaring up and a strange feeling, clawing its way up past the smoke in his lungs to his mouth- he was so scared, so scared of what he could say.

— 

It was that feeling after you slept in after a late night, that realization that you had been a little weird, the night before, delirious from sleeplessness, reminiscent of days when you were very young and slept over at a friend’s house and one in the morning felt like a crime. Makoto woke up and felt it- he didn’t remember his dreams, but he had a hard-on, and he took a hot shower and touched himself, slow and almost lonely. He thought of Laurent’s voice, pitched different at the wrong moments, and he thought of his face- he hadn’t seen him in months. Somehow the time in prison felt shorter.

He was nervous to text Laurent, and Laurent didn’t text him, either. Gone was the funny familiarity of those first few days. Anything either of them did now was a move being made, another step on the chess board of their relationship. Makoto was usually great at thinking on the fly, but he didn’t know what to say to him, text or otherwise.

Coffee beans, ground by hand for the hell of it. The laughter of some teens on their way home from a hike, leaving a mess for Makoto to clean. He couldn’t be mad. He’d never had that sort of day. Or if he did, he couldn’t remember it.

Okinawa didn’t often get to freezing- the rain was soft in temperature, the clouds too polite. Big storms were rare. It was so humid, all the time, and Makoto’s sweat clung to him on the warmer days, irritating and unwanted. Makoto took the long way home, the next few evenings, purposefully getting lost in the streets surrounding houses with cute, nice lawns, purposefully staying out in the rain when it was at its best. Gentle and a little too cold. Everything was slow and easy, easy, easy. 

He thought of the things he could text Laurent, things like _did you finally sleep well_ and _is the sun out where you are_ and _did you want to marry her_ \- but instead he got a text from Cynthia, asking if he would like to fly over to London, sometime soon. Abbie would be there, some others would be there-

_Is Laurent coming?_ he texted, knowing Cynthia would never read it as casual.

She texted him a bunch of laughing emojis. _I think so!_

“I’m taking next weekend off,” said Makoto to Kenichi, at the end of their shift.

Kenichi’s face was bright, genuinely happy. “Good for you!” he said. “You never take days off. I was starting to think you didn’t have a life.”

Makoto looked at him. “Okay, mean.”

—

“There you are,” said Laurent, when they first saw each other again, at a nice, roomy apartment that Cynthia owned in the heart of the city, and the words were too earnest, too kind for everything leading up to them, but he said them with such a flourish that Makoto couldn’t see them as such. Makoto’s long, long plane ride. His long, long car ride. Abbie and Cynthia making fun of him in Cynthia’s family-style Porsche. Cynthia had gotten a friend to babysit Kawin, they were going all night, it was going to be great, seeing everyone again, blah blah blah. Makoto was nervously locking his door, unlocking it, locking it again, Abbie watching him, more amused than anything. Makoto could find no sympathy from any of them.

“Yeah,” said Makoto, suddenly at a loss for a great comeback. Not like his comebacks were ever great, anyway, but.

Cynthia gave them both funny looks as she went to embrace Shi-won, who had arrived with some other older women that Makoto already felt intimidated by. Abbie went to sit on their couch and brood, muttering something that Makoto didn’t hear, but it was probably rude and he flipped her off just in case.

“You should go sightseeing,” said Laurent, such a non-sequitur, taking steps towards him, all facile movement. He was wearing a button-down. Makoto took all of him in warily.

“What should I go see?” Makoto walked past him to get a glass of champagne, Laurent trailing behind but pretending like it was his idea, something that Makoto found extremely satisfying. “There’s that big Ferris wheel, right?”

“Yes,” said Laurent, laughing at him. “You could see Big Ben. I don’t know. A great city, I always say.”

“No, you don’t,” said Makoto, pouring the champagne into Cynthia’s very nice glassware. 

Laurent cocked his head at him, grinning. “Guess not. Mind pouring me one?”

Makoto met his eyes as he took a sip, refusing to reach for another. “I never know what to say to you.”

Laurent chuckled a bit and sighed. “Oh, I disagree.”

Makoto blinked at him, then laughed. “Why do we talk like this?” he said, shaking his glass at him, Laurent laughing too. “Tell me what part of America you’re in. I’m going to get it out of you.”

Laurent was on the east coast of the U.S. He still managed to avoid more specific questions about location, which Makoto figured meant this was a big con that he was planning, and he didn’t want to know, not yet, so he followed Laurent’s lead, talking about a new movie and Abbie’s apparent start at a community college.

“I’m going out to smoke,” said Makoto, not too long after, hands twitching towards his pocket, assuming Laurent would follow, which he did.

“You still…?” Laurent had his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah,” said Makoto, not sure what else to say about it, Laurent’s face expressionless.

“I see,” said Laurent, shadows coming to rest on his face as they stepped out onto the balcony, a small concrete area bordered by a petite glass railing that Makoto felt was pretty dangerous, actually. The lights of the city were quite far below them, and he could see a pool down there, could watch the two people in it swimming around, small ants in an ocean.

“Don’t like it?” said Makoto, narrowing his eyes at the skyline, refusing to meet Laurent’s gaze.

“No,” said Laurent, but his voice didn’t sound very enthusiastic. A moment slid by. “Here, I’ll light it for you.”

Makoto looked at him suspiciously, handing him the lighter from his pocket. Laurent flicked it on, careful fingers, his face lit up just a little by the tiny flame, the seconds drawn out as Laurent just stood there and looked at it, and then looked at Makoto, hands so close to his mouth as the flame touched the tip of the cigarette. Makoto watched the flame go out again, unnerved.

“Thanks,” he said, blowing out smoke.

“Of course,” said Laurent, voice rough, and the sounds of the party behind them were so far away, leaking out through a sliver of the door that they’d left open. It was too cold to be out there, but neither of them moved. 

“We should have fun tonight.” Makoto tapped the edge of his cigarette with his finger.

“What do you mean?” Laurent gave him an amused look, collecting himself.

Makoto thought about this. “We should get drunk together,” he realized, face lighting up, and Laurent covered his mouth to laugh at him. 

“I’d like nothing more,” said Laurent, face too close, smile too nice, the breeze raising Makoto’s skin, not anything else, never, no.

They did. The night was on his side. They laughed and made fun of Cynthia together, Makoto actually pouring Laurent champagne at one point, Laurent a little flushed. Laurent never truly seemed to lose his cool; when he wasn’t sober, he seemed to find everything even more funny, like he was cruising through life more than he already did. Makoto usually hated it, but the champagne was making him tipsy and he started seeing it all as very endearing- Laurent’s hand on his shoulder, Laurent fixing his collar, Laurent looking over at him from across the room. Makoto didn’t remove his hand, didn’t stop him from doing any of it. 

Then it was a blur, a nice one- all of them dancing to Cynthia’s record player, shiny and not about nostalgia at all, older music that Makoto didn’t seek out for himself- in his drunk state, he started thinking- _what do I even listen to? what do I even want?_ but then Laurent would crack up, hiding his smile in Makoto’s shoulder, and he would forget where he was, about all that.

“I didn’t book a hotel,” said Makoto, suddenly, when people started to leave.

Cynthia giggled. “That’s stupid of you.” Abbie nodded solemnly. 

Makoto glared at them. “What about your couch? I can-“

“You can come to mine,” said Laurent, all innocent, chuckling in that rude way, and he always said this sort of thing, and Makoto always refused, always said no, but-

Makoto considered him. “Really.”

Laurent peered at him, seemingly surprised that Makoto wasn’t brushing him off, and Cynthia was nudging at Abbie, not subtle at all, Abbie simply giving her a look. Laurent blinked a bunch of times, lips spreading to show his teeth. “Yeah, Edamame.”

“I’ll get a separate room. This way I can just get a ride there, it’s easier.” He said this mostly so Cynthia would leave him in alone in the morning- she probably wouldn’t even remember, though; she was drooling all over Abbie’s shoulder, Abbie looking less than happy about it.

“Sure,” said Laurent easily, winking at him. “Whatever you say.” He gave Makoto a slow once-over, and Makoto felt himself heat up, as usual, and it was worse because there were people around to see it, Cynthia cackling and tipping over a bottle on the coffee table. 

And Makoto wanted the upper hand, always wanted it, so he smiled back, smoothing out a wrinkle on Laurent’s shirt sleeve with a sweep of his hand, waving goodbye to Abbie (unreciprocated) as Laurent fumbled with his jacket and almost tripped to follow him out the door.

Laurent spread his legs out in the taxi, invading Makoto’s personal space; Makoto eyed his nice pants, eyed the glint of his eyes in the dark. Laurent was not to be trusted, but neither was Makoto, now, so it was different, and Makoto moved a bit so their thighs were touching, leaning over to whisper in Laurent’s ear, words just barely slurring- “We both know I’m going to your room, right?”

Laurent’s breath hitched. “Glad you’ve made it clear.”

“Aren’t you?” Makoto ran a hand up Laurent’s thigh, deliberate, leisurely. His lips were brushing against the skin of Laurent’s ear. “You know what Cynthia told me?”

“What did she say,” said Laurent, a small smile on his face even as his eyelashes fluttered, even as he tilted his head slightly towards Makoto, like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

“She said,” said Makoto, wanting to get on top of him, in his lap, bite his neck, but holding it all back, he had to call his bluff, he had to get Laurent to _say_ it, “that you’re in love with me.”

“Well,” said Laurent, and he didn’t even try to avoid it, Makoto felt his eyes widen- “I thought that was obvious.” 

The car stopped. Makoto had been leaning in towards Laurent, Laurent’s eyes almost closed, looking almost pleased, but now he leaned back sourly as the cab driver told them they were there, Laurent tipping him and making conversation and Makoto was standing by, impatient, wanted to go now, now.

The room key, the lobby with a chandelier in it, the stairs to the second floor. A nice, big room that Makoto felt was too generous for one person anyway. Laurent’s hand on the stair railing, on the key card as it slid through the door’s lock. The light switch flipped on, Makoto dropping his bag onto the table to flip through the hotel’s brochure. Laurent, watching him as the bellhop brought his larger suitcase in. Laurent didn’t even look at the man as he left, just gazed at Makoto, pleased, turning to take off his jacket and hook it on a hanger, humming the bridge of a Simon and Garfunkel song Cynthia had put on at the tail end of the party.

Makoto put the brochure down, sat on the end of the king size bed. He didn’t like beds that big. _All that space and for what_ , he thought.

“Not the fanciest place we’ve stayed at, you’ll have to forgive me.” Laurent was walking over to sit next to him.

“You think I care?” Makoto leaned back on his hands, smirking at him. “It’s really nice, anyway. You don’t have to do all that with me.”

Laurent looked at him sweetly. “All that,” he repeated.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” started Makoto, looking at his lips, leaning in because he could, he wanted to, “playing dumb isn’t your strong suit.” Laurent was a great kisser, and for some reason Makoto had always pictured him as being rough, taking and taking, but instead he seemed to wait for Makoto to give it to him, using his tongue when he did, moving his hands up to his shoulders when Makoto wrapped his own around his neck.

“Tell me why I love this,” said Makoto, not really tipsy anymore but feeling like he should be trying harder to make sense of it all.

Laurent’s breath was hot against his cheek. “What can I say? I’m a catch.” Makoto pulled at his hair a little, Laurent almost panting.

“It’s been _years,_ ” said Makoto, gripping his leg. “Years of this.”

“Yes,” said Laurent, eyes hazy, like this was an easy thing to come to terms with. “I’m a patient man.”

Makoto pulled back to look at him. “That first call. You were drunk?”

“Yes,” said Laurent again, open and willing, and Makoto thought about this. He got up and turned off the light. 

“Oh, don’t be shy,” said Laurent, looking at him curiously. 

“It just sets the mood,” said Makoto, irritated. “Lay back.”

Laurent blinked at him. “Edamame, you wouldn’t be suggesting-“

Makoto tilted his chin up, smug. “You’re hard, I know.” 

Laurent looked at him and licked his lips. “I want to-“

“Let me,” said Makoto, unbuttoning Laurent’s stupid shirt, kissing him again, pushing him against the mattress. “Let me.” It was all very quick, they hadn’t kissed much, but Makoto felt like he could do anything, right now, was more excited about something than he’d been in months, nudging Laurent’s pants down with his knuckles, pressing lips to Laurent’s jaw, Laurent’s hands gripping his arms.

Laurent spread his legs just slightly as Makoto leaned over him and ran his hand over his cock through his briefs. Laurent let out a low moan, covering his mouth again like he did when laughed, like it was too much, already. 

Makoto smiled at him, not kindly. “Go on.” 

Laurent blinked slowly. “Edamura, I-“

Makoto took his cock out of his underwear, looking over at it, feeling his eagerness find its way to his expression. “Mhm?”

“I want to- for you-“ Laurent seemed to be having trouble saying it. Makoto spit in his hand and rubbed it around Laurent’s dick. 

“No,” said Makoto flatly, almost mean. “I’d rather do this, right now.” He arranged himself in front of Laurent’s cock, leaning down to place his lips softly on the tip. Laurent sighed happily.

Makoto ran his tongue up, a long, satisfied lick before he wrapped his lips around Laurent’s cock and sucked. Laurent wasn’t a hair-puller; he kept running his fingers gingerly across Makoto’s cheek, his jaw, thumb at the edge of his lips, groaning and whining far too much, Makoto thought, but he liked it anyway. Makoto’s spit was all over him, Laurent slowly starting to move his cock against Makoto’s mouth, cursing lowly and saying y _eah, yeah_ every few seconds like he couldn’t stop himself. Makoto just hummed, the vibrations seeming to drive Laurent crazy; Makoto was so hard, and he wanted Laurent’s hands on his cock, wanted to fuck Laurent’s mouth, wanted to fuck _Laurent-_

Laurent nudged at him, then, keening, breath coming quickly. Makoto pulled off. “Hm?” he said, wiping a little at his mouth, Laurent watching with obvious pleasure. 

“Was about to cum,” said Laurent, plainly. 

“You should’ve just done it,” said Makoto, raising an eyebrow at him, grabbing his cock again with his hand, spit all over his hand, the sound of it almost embarrassing in the quiet room. 

Laurent let out a broken laugh, moving against Makoto’s hand. “Yeah, like that,” he said, voice more like syrup as Makoto pressed his thumb into his slit. 

Makoto looked at him, pleased. “Cum all over my hand, Laurent.” Laurent closed his eyes and did it, his moans raw and rough, and Makoto had dreamed of this, had spent a morning losing his footing thinking about it, weeks ago.

—

Laurent had given Makoto a handjob, smile full of faint heat as he wrapped his hand around him and Makoto was on his knees above him, growling into it. And then they’d both passed out, it had almost been four in the morning, Makoto’s jet-lag catching up to him. He wasn’t sure that was how jet-lag worked, actually, but he remembered closing his eyes for a second and waking up with the sunlight poking at his face, curtains pulled back as Laurent stepped back into the room with doughnuts he’d gotten from the breakfast area.

“Thanks,” said Makoto awkwardly.

Laurent’s eyes glittered. “Anything.”

Makoto looked at him for a while, smiling. “C’mere.” He kissed him.

Makoto wasn’t sure what all of this meant, now. He didn’t want to leave. And he felt like he had lived his whole life in locations, in places, by streets and neighborhoods and hotels and now he didn’t even care about London but he wanted to stay there because Laurent was there. Laurent had a plane ride scheduled for later that day, and they skirted around any conversations about the actual act of leaving, instead choosing to walk around a park, Laurent in a big Macy’s sort of jacket that Makoto didn’t love as they watched kids chase pigeons, Laurent trying to hold Makoto’s hand but Makoto simply leaning into him, irritable and feeling like a teenager who didn’t want to get caught with their secret lover after school.

“Oh, don’t look so sad, Edamame,” said Laurent, his turn to be smug as he threw his suitcase into the trunk of a taxi. “You have your coffee shop!”

“Don’t mock me,” said Makoto, glaring at Laurent as he blew a kiss out the car window at him. “You fucking wish I was sad.”

Makoto went on the London Eye with Abbie, pacing around with discontent as she sat and watched him, unimpressed. He turned to her after a while, saying, “Am I being stupid?”

“Always,” she said, pulling out her phone to play a game or something, probably.

“Look at the view, at least,” muttered Makoto, shaking his head at her. “No, I mean, should I just? You know?”

Abbie pursed her lips. “Not everyone can decipher your weird riddles. I’m not Laurent, remember?”

Makoto groaned. “Should I just go for it? With- with him?” 

“Yeah,” said Abbie. “I mean, what else are you going to do? Cry in your beach house some more?”

“You give the worst advice,” said Makoto, frowning at her.

“Then stop asking for it.” Abbie gave the London skyline a cursory glance before going back to Temple Run.

Makoto asked Cynthia, too, who he thought would take him a bit more seriously, but she laughed in his face. 

“Ha!” she said, pointing at him over their nice dinner. Makoto muttered at her, rolling his eyes. “See, it _is_ funny. Abbie would agree.” Abbie gave her a thumbs up, leaning back into her seat. 

“It’s not,” said Makoto. He hated them both. “I’m just- I don’t know. I don’t trust him.”

Cynthia tilted her head at him, thinking. “But can you imagine him with anyone else? I sure can’t.”

Abbie shrugged, grinning cruelly. “Yeah, no. You two dumbasses are made for each other. You’re both-“

“Okay, we don’t have to get into it,” interrupted Makoto, sighing and putting his menu down. He really had been upset, watching Laurent leave.

—

_Laurent,_ he wrote, the night he got back, feeling wired and distressed, the wind uncharacteristically picking up as he unlocked his door with his worn-out key. 

_Edamame,_ replied Laurent, the text short and somehow getting Makoto excited to the point where he didn’t even unpack his bag and just plopped onto his couch, used but good condition, not bothering to turn on the lights, the sink dripping as it always did, the sound irritating him.

_we had sex,_ Makoto wrote. _you really should stop calling me that_

_Oh, never :)_

Makoto huffed. _are you busy right now_

His phone started to buzz. Makoto stared at it for a second before tapping the screen. “Hey.”

“Hey,” said Laurent, amused.

“Are you alone?” Makoto crossed his legs, closing his eyes.

“I am, actually,” said Laurent, humoring him.

“Hm.”

“And you?”

Makoto’s lips turned up. “I’m alone, yeah.”

“Hm.”

Makoto laughed, listening to Laurent breathe for a moment, the silence heavy but not unkind.

“Why now?” Laurent’s voice was tinny, strange.

Makoto almost asked what he meant, but he knew. He thought about it for a bit, Laurent patiently waiting on the other side of the line. “Well,” he said. “It was inevitable. Don’t you think?”

Laurent didn’t reply immediately. “I didn’t know what you would do. I hoped.”

“Sure,” said Makoto, “but I always sort of- thought about it.”

“Thought about it?” Laurent asked, amused. _He always just repeats what I say,_ thought Makoto, rubbing his face with his hands, not even mad.

“You know. I mean, I knew. I just thought you wanted to fuck me. You act like that with a lot of people.” Makoto sort of loved this, the way they talked about it all without really talking about the real stuff, the real issues, the drugs and the money and the guns.

“But I _did_ want to fuck you,” said Laurent cheekily, and Makoto rolled his eyes. “Still do, Edamame.”

“Ugh,” said Makoto. “See, now I’m not even in the mood.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were going all the way here,” said Laurent, pretend-pensive and annoying. “Didn’t you just get off a plane?”

“Yes,” gritted out Makoto. “Maybe I just need something to help me get to sleep, right?”

Laurent laughed at him, and Makoto could imagine his head tilting back- it was a genuine, hearty sound, the type that came out when you took him by surprise. “Well. I can help with _that._ ” Makoto frowned, but then- “Get yourself out.”

Makoto breathed slowly. “Just like that, huh?” he said, but he was doing it.

“Yeah,” said Laurent, voice unchanging. “Just like that.” 

“Now what,” said Makoto, going for mocking, but he was hard, had been since he’d heard Laurent say _hey_ in that appreciative tone. 

“Touch your cock,” said Laurent, sighing softly. 

“You’re doing it too, yeah?” Makoto grinned sharply as he fisted his cock. “Wish I was there. I’d fuck your mouth.”

Laurent whined a little. “Christ, Makoto.”

“I know you’d like it,” said Makoto, head lolling against his couch cushions, squeezing the end of his dick with his fingers. “I’d get you on your knees, pull your hair-“ 

Laurent groaned, low and desperate. “Please.”

“Aw,” said Makoto, smiling. “Anything, Laurent.”

Laurent only made a few noises. “Wish I could see you,” he said, after a bit, voice cracking, Makoto loving it.

“Wish I could see you too,” said Makoto, voice a jagged edge, a superior-feeling knife. “Wanna fuck you so bad. Or ride your cock. God. _Anything._ ” There wasn’t a lot to say, after that.

He and Laurent knew the value of silences, knew them on boats and on cliff-sides, knew them near the ocean. Sunsets on that island that Cynthia owned. Always the water. Makoto couldn’t hear the water, even though he was trying to. He could hear the static over the line, the slowing down of Laurent’s breathing. He felt good, he felt great, he wanted to fix his sink. He wanted to sleep in tomorrow; he’d probably call off.

He was feeling brave, that night, and so after a few minutes of tracing circles into the fabric of his couch, Laurent not saying anything either, he said, “Did you want to marry her?”

Laurent’s hesitation was something Makoto could physically feel. “Yes.”

“I see.”

Laurent seemed to be trying to figure out what to say; fascinating, the things you could hear without even detecting a sound. “That’s all over now.”

“Okay.”

“Makoto.”

Makoto didn’t say anything.

“She didn’t want to marry me. It’s- it’s all over now.”

Makoto was taken aback by his weird, vague honesty. “All right.”

“I just-“

“I said it’s all right. I’m not mad or anything. I only wanted to know.”

Laurent was silent again, and then: “Do you want to quit smoking?”

Makoto closed his eyes, shut them as tight as he could. He opened his mouth and closed it, then stared at the ceiling. His bare, normal ceiling. “Yes, I think so, Laurent.”

—

“Good morning, mon amour,” said Laurent, voice bright and honestly very fucking annoying at this hour of the day.

Makoto balanced his phone up on his shoulder, pulling on his work pants. “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to say hello,” said Laurent, probably pouting. 

“Okay, you’ve done it,” said Makoto. He was somewhat amused. “I’ve got to go to work.”

“Of course,” said Laurent easily. He sounded like he found the whole _work_ thing Makoto was doing amusing. Makoto didn’t trust Kenichi at this point. They had to be in kahoots. “Call me later. Don’t forget, cheri.”

“The fucking _French,_ ” said Makoto, groaning as the line cut, pulling on some socks with a violence he found enjoyable.

“You seem excited about something,” said Kenichi, and Makoto was tired of how cliche everyone was being about this whole thing. He wasn’t in a rom-com, thank you.

“I’m seeing someone,” said Makoto haughtily, sweeping around the entrance to the cafe with their old, rickety broom. 

“Oh!” said Kenichi. “I knew it.”

Makoto frowned at him. “Whatever.”

“It’s not either of those two ladies that came in a bit ago, is it? They seemed great but not your type, if you know what I mean.” Kenichi winked at him over the counter, wiping it down with a washcloth.

“Uh, what,” said Makoto. “Are you saying I seem gay?”

Kenichi looked at him. “Yes?”

Makoto called Laurent later, popping sunflowers seeds into his mouth to fill up the space in his mind that craved a cigarette. It had been weeks, now, since he had thrown out all his packs and his ash trays and told everyone to get mad at him if they saw him smoking again. He hadn’t caved yet, but every time he went outside, he would think about it, would feel his fingers twitch, would get irritated, deep down, had to take a deep breath.

Before, he didn’t really have a reason to quit- it felt good, a masochistic sadness reminding him of months alone with a woman who reminded him of his dead mother. Makoto got attached to things that _reminded_ him of other things. He had liked thinking he looked cool, leaning against the electrical pole next to the cafe, wisps of smoke coming out of his mouth, but now he only thought of Laurent’s detached disapproval when he said he almost smoked the week before late at night. 

“You don’t have room to judge,” Makoto had said, pissed off and not caring.

“I don’t,” Laurent answered placidly. “You know I don’t.” Makoto hadn’t known what to say to that.

Now, Laurent noticed him chewing the seeds over the phone and commented on it, lighthearted. Makoto had explained and Laurent had said, “Well, I did think it was hot, at least.”

“What,” said Makoto, laughing into his phone. “That does not help me at all, fuck you.” But he didn’t smoke, he didn’t smoke.

And he got drunk with Laurent over the phone, when it had gotten dark, making fun of Laurent’s taste in fashion, Laurent telling him he wasn’t sure where he had gotten that high horse from because he certainly wasn’t any _better, Mr. Polo Shirt,_ and Makoto laughed and laughed and got so angry with Laurent over something stupid that he didn’t remember the next day. And he said, “I wish you would come visit me,” and Laurent immediately went quiet and said, “Tomorrow, then,” like he’d been waiting for this for a long time. “You only needed to say the words.” And Makoto got mad at him again, then, because what the fuck was he doing, waiting for Makoto to make every move after so long and so much.

—

“So,” said Makoto. “You came.” It was a lovely day, not too hot, humid and heavy but not too bad, really, not bad at all. Gulls in the sky, shrieking with delight; there would be food for them, today, because surely some of the locals would be going to the beach. And, of course, there were the brush-stroke clouds, letting the sun get most of the glory, the rays peeping in through their glass windows, recently wiped down.

“Yes,” said Laurent, feet propped up on an adjacent chair. The coffee shop was empty; the lunch rush had finally gone and Kenichi was on break. Makoto smirked at Laurent from behind the counter.

“It’s been too long,” Makoto said at once, undoing his apron and walking over and falling into Laurent’s arms, everything so funny to Laurent, who looked up at him with hooded eyes and lightly colored eyelashes, grin lopsided and knowing. Makoto kissed his jaw, fit himself into his lap, sure he was smelly with the scent of coffee beans and trash but Laurent just breathed him in, kissed his neck. 

“I’m going to fuck you tonight,” said Makoto in Laurent’s ear, giddy and much too eager, but Laurent loved that, of course, practically drooling all over Makoto’s collar, and then Kenichi came in and everything was embarrassing and Makoto went back to work, flushed and unsettled all day because Laurent was sitting in the nicest corner and looking at him over his laptop and his newspaper and his used classic novels.

“I didn’t get a hotel room,” said Laurent. “Hope that’s all right. It’s only fair, after all.” 

Makoto rolled his eyes. “I mean, whatever.” He didn’t really know how to deal with this intersection of Laurent and the path home, the crooked curbs of the sidewalks, the places he’d whistle in, alone late at night, grabbing the poles of street lights like he was in an old movie musical.

“It’s nice here,” said Laurent amiably, never faltering in his steps next to Makoto. “Quiet.”

“Mm,” said Makoto, trying to figure out what he was playing at.

Laurent looked over and laughed at his expression. “No, really. I understand why you like it.”

“You think I like it?” said Makoto, leading him across his small lawn and to his porch. 

“Well, feelings are always much more complicated with you, I’ll give you that,” said Laurent, pressing the doorbell with his finger, just to do it. 

“It’s broken,” said Makoto cheerfully, Laurent glancing over as he pushed the door open with a lighthearted shove. “Well. Here we are.”

“You always choose the… quaintest of places,” said Laurent, finally condescending in the way that Makoto expected, but Makoto just grinned at him, pouring him a glass of water, telling him to put his bag wherever he wanted. 

Laurent went for his bedroom; Makoto found him sitting at the edge of Makoto’s mattress, sliding off his oxfords. “Quiet,” Laurent said again, staring at his blinds, his sheets, his IKEA- style dresser.

“Yeah,” agreed Makoto. 

“You don’t get bored, out here?” Laurent leaned back, the overhead light making his face look rough and homely. Different.

Makoto considered him. “I wouldn’t call it boredom.” It didn’t matter what it was, since Laurent was here, and it seemed like everything was turned up just a bit, the volume a little too loud, the silences expectant and humming, nothing like they used to be. Maybe Makoto was bored. He didn’t know. 

“Hm,” said Laurent, and Makoto, for a moment, tried to imagine what he would look like if he cried. He didn’t know why he thought it. And Laurent kept looking at him, almost polite. Makoto just met his gaze, giving him an absent-minded nod. He hadn't seen him cry, not ever.

“I did miss you, though,” said Makoto, hoping Laurent would understand what he meant, what he didn’t know he meant. Laurent was good at seeing everything Makoto didn’t know he had, prying him open to get to the worst of it.

Laurent laughed airily, not quite sad, but something close to it nonetheless. “I missed you, too.” It felt like he was referring to years and years that Makoto wasn’t even familiar with. Makoto was good at seeing everything Laurent was hiding, slicing him open to get to the best of it.

Makoto let him lean against his shoulder. He had a floral shirt on made of crisp, new material that implied its newness, its expensive nature. Makoto pinched the fabric between his fingers. “Let’s eat dinner. I hope you know how to cook.”

Laurent peered at him, eyebrow raised. “Keep hoping. I’m terrible at it.”

—

Makoto got most of the way through dinner before he rose and kissed Laurent, sloppy and worked up, almost exasperated. He was impressed with his restraint- the whole time, Laurent had talked in that voice he did when he was sure of something, confident and cocky and not too much but certainly not too little. The voice he used when he had explained a con to Makoto, the voice he used when he told Makoto to cum over the phone. Makoto figured the wires had been crossed, somewhere, but it was all rooted in a place too deep, somewhere not worth examining, not right now, not when Laurent was making these pleased sounds as Makoto sat in his lap and pulled him towards him by his shirt, so he could only find it amusing, not that serious, the way he fell all over this man every time, thought of him every night.

“Been waiting for you to come and see me,” said Makoto, all heat and no thought, always saying things like that when they got like this. He sucked at Laurent’s neck, Laurent holding him by his back, always just letting him have it.

“I didn’t want to overstep,” said Laurent, words mumbled and content. “I said I was a patient man.”

“Way too long,” said Makoto, annoyed at him. “You shouldn’t have waited _that_ long.”

“Well, would you have said yes during those first few years? And anyway, I was satisfied enough.” Laurent was carding fingers through Makoto’s hair, thoroughly entertained.

“Satisfied?” Makoto said, hoping he would know he was making fun of him.

If he did, he ignored it. “Satisfied with what we had.” Laurent ran his hands down Makoto’s arms.

“And you just, what. Didn’t have sex?” Makoto was trailing his own hands under the folds of Laurent’s shirt, brushing against his nipples, making Laurent close his eyes, lose himself for a second.

“I didn’t say that.” Laurent raised his eyelids, pupils wide. “Does that make you jealous?”

Makoto’s expression was probably less than pleased. “ _No.”_ He pinched his nipple.

Laurent’s grip on him tightened. “I love it when you get possessive.” Makoto bit his shoulder.

They didn’t make it to Makoto’s bed for the longest time. Laurent sat back on the couch and Makoto stood over him and shoved his cock in his mouth, Laurent perfectly willing to do every part of it, letting Makoto push him back into the cushions and tell him to swirl his tongue, purring when his voice got a little mean.

“You want this?” said Makoto, finger slowly pumping into Laurent, stretching him open.

“Yeah, yes,” keened Laurent, and he wasn’t quite begging, not yet, just slightly playing along, but he seemed to genuinely like it, Makoto knew that much. 

“That’s it,” said Makoto, voice like candy. “Want another?”

Laurent only moaned, rumbles felt all over on the small mattress, Makoto smiling at him. 

“Come on,” said Laurent, gaze heavy as he spread out on his back, leisurely even on the small bed, spreading out like he knew, he knew. Makoto was positioned over him, gripping his own cock, slowly spreading lube all over with his palm, Laurent’s gaze unmoving. “Come on.”

Makoto watched him, all teeth in his smile, and that’s how he knew it was getting to him. “I thought you’d want to go slow.” Laurent brought his hand up to Makoto’s mouth, watched him wrap his lips around his fingers, spit trailing in between index and middle, Makoto lightly biting down in the end. Laurent’s thumb on his bottom lip. Makoto, lowering himself down to push his cock inside him, watch him move around, desperate.

“Want you now,” said Laurent, groaning as Makoto shoved it in again.

“ _Ah_ ,” said Makoto, slowly picking up the pace, leaning close to Laurent, who had grabbed his ass, whispering things in his ear like _that’s good, mhmm,_ and _right there,_ all cliches that were somehow making him go faster, making him swipe his tongue across Laurent’s jawline.

“Please,” breathed Laurent, as Makoto slowed down at one point, having a little fun. 

The corners of Makoto’s mouth went up. He pushed his cock into Laurent as far as he could, full of intention, calculation. “I actually should’ve known you’d be like this,” he said, shoving into him, Laurent biting his lip as he moaned, moving his hands around Makoto again, but Makoto took his arms from him, pressed them against the mattress. Laurent could barely get another word out, tight around Makoto’s cock, and Makoto was going to cum soon, was losing himself in it, making sounds he didn’t know he was capable of.

Laurent saw it in his face, probably, because he started saying his name and saying, “Cum, sweetheart,” in French and English, like he did over the phone when Makoto was wound around his bedsheets, grinding into his pillow or whatever while Laurent spoke into his ear.

Makoto groaned as he came, rough and too much, and then he leaned down and took Laurent’s dick into his mouth, fingers trailing around Laurent’s balls. Laurent let him move his mouth, mostly, not really moving beneath him, cumming in Makoto’s mouth, Makoto grinning around it, wiping at the corners with his hand, just like that night in the hotel, but they’d pulled through, hadn’t they, and now Laurent watched him do it, almost proud.

They took a shower together, the next morning, and then Makoto got fucked against his kitchen counter, and then he rode Laurent’s cock on his couch. They had a lot of sex, basically, and Makoto didn’t go to work that day. He stayed in and they watched a movie, Laurent tearing up at a strange part that Makoto felt he would ask about later, studying the way the tears formed at the corners, the way Laurent laughed through wiping them off. Laurent read him passages of Dostoevsky and Makoto read him some passages by Murakami. Laurent picked up some of his capsule toys, not even asking any questions, and Makoto just laid on his bed, watching him, watching the dust motes in the rays of sunlight.

“What’d you think,” started Makoto, “when you first met me?” He was expecting something poetic, lovely, thrilling, something like, _I’d wanted to help you, I’d wanted to save you, wanted to save myself._

Laurent looked at him over his shoulder, roguish and in need of a shave. The light caressed the edges of the shirt that he was wearing, a simple graphic tee that was actually Makoto’s. “Oh,” he said, eyebrows lowered cannily. “I thought you were cute.”


End file.
